


Your Cheeks, Warm And Roseate

by Pigeonsy



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mary is nonbinary them's the facts, Nonbinary Character, Other, References to Depression, Trans Male Character, does get into the fact that Mary appears to have ptsd, they're trying their best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 15:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16936221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeonsy/pseuds/Pigeonsy
Summary: A set of snapshots of the beautiful, lonely, and seductive Bloody Mary: as viewed by their Master Attendant.





	1. Domesticity In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

> Bloody Mary is my darling, and [rattles spoons] they're nonbinary. That's that. This is just a set of shorts because I love 'em.

“Ma-ster~!” There's a pointed pause: enunciation, a drawl. The voice is soft, but fairly deep, and silky. Like a soft blanket (like the ones the Master Attendant has bundled himself into), warm and comforting. “Master, I brought you breakfast. Don't let it get cold, dear.” 

The statement is punctuated by cool, clammy hands glossing against his neck hesitantly -- likely an accidental byproduct of the blankets being moved off of him. Long nails, icy skin: Bloody Mary's hands, definitely. They have soft hands, which is nice (even if they're always a little cold, he hardly minds it).

Narrow eyes, heavy-lidded and violently blue, regard him in amusement and a tinge of concern. Mary is always a little distant: they don't live up to their ill-spoken reputation, and are rather nervous -- always asking politely before the slightest of intimate contact, always scared they'll be abandoned or discarded. “There you are, sleepyhead. Rest is the ally of beauty, but being awake keeps you most lovely, Master dear.”

The Attendant blushes but takes the silverware offered to them, pulling the tray of food close: pancakes, eggs, sausage, a large cup of coffee (made, unjudgingly, in the sweet-milky way he always takes it: oh, this one is a housewife). And yet, Mary's still peering at him -- sheepishly. Surprisingly so. He leans towards them, signs to them the way he does to the others: “would you like a kiss, Mary?” -- and is surprised when they simply lean down the gap in between his height and theirs, instead of replying verbally (but they nod, white wavelets bobbing in their ponytail). So he gives them that: warmth and tenderness, lips-to-lips. A good morning, for both of them.


	2. Sleepless, Weightless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah now we're leftfielding into sad content because I have no control of my life.

That day wasn't the greatest, for either party. He couldn't get out of bed -- a little too heavy, too tired (unable to so much as get dressed, shirt off and chest free from his binder; he hadn't even really eaten, or moved). Across the room, a blanket-wrapped figure in the corner wasn't faring much better; Bloody Mary, staring at their feet, uncomfortably quiet (likely dwelling on things that had harmed them in the past: on someone that had harmed them). 

 

It's their degree of pain that motivates the Master Attendant to move, sliding out of bed not-so-gracefully and staggering over to the person he had finalized  _**just such a contract** _ with (marriage, is what he equated it to, marriage and so he could not leave Mary to their own hell). The noise of his feet on the floor makes them lurch back, wild-eyed and with a look that says their body is more there than their brain; he steps back, slowly, and sits on the floor (closer to the bed than to them, and somewhere near the door). The blanket's slipped off by then, one bare shoulder sticking out (right-hand side, the side with the faint scarring and the flower tattoo). He wants to fix it, but knows not to touch them suddenly, knows not to hurt them; he knows to let them ease into awareness on their own, so he waits.

 

“It's alright, you're home now. You're not back there.” The customary line in his disused voice, as he watches the wild and filmy cover be slowly replaced with confusion and -- frankly, pain. He knows the part that comes next, the slender prying fingers and shaking voice that will come in response. Braces himself for the psychosomatic blindness Mary always seems hit with (as if their brain has turned back on having been in the dark for too long). Their voice is barely audible when it slips out, almost as hoarse as his had been. “Where are you -- I can't -- where are you? My eyes aren't --”

 

Their legs and arms have never held them well (neuromuscular atrophy, at some point, had made its home in those soft-skinned appendages), so they end up almost face-first against the floor: too fast a movement, too forceful. He meets them halfway, making sure they know he's there, guiding their hands onto him because he always runs warm and they need something to hold onto. They're heavy and the usually well-brushed shock of white is a messy veil around their face, and their hands are shaky: that's the way this always goes. He's a lot smaller than them -- they have about a foot on him -- so he simply presses into the space in their frame he fits neatly into. Today may not be a good day for either of them, but there would always be the next morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depressed Attendant and traumatized Mary...sometimes you just gotta hold each other...

**Author's Note:**

> Hewwo I hope you enjoyed this bunch of Mary content.


End file.
